


Every Planet We Reach Is Dead

by SkysongMA



Series: This Is Not About Love [13]
Category: Adventure Time
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 06:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11202513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkysongMA/pseuds/SkysongMA
Summary: "Listen, all right," Marshall Lee said, pushing off G.B.'s desk. "It's about my mom.""How many times have I told you to use antecedents to your pronouns," said G.B., but boredly. He was drained at the idea of going through all this again. And yet he'd still opened his window. God. How stupid was he?"I still don't know what that means." Marshall Lee gestured as though to brush the words away. "It doesn't matter. My mom has some of my stuff, and I need it back."G.B. almost said, "So go talk to your mother," but even now, he couldn't make himself be that cruel. Marshall Lee had never told him the whole story—Marshall Lee never told anyone the whole story—but even so.Instead, G.B. shrugged. "What has that got to do with me?"Marshall Lee bit his lip, hard, then pushed his hands up into his hair, tugging at his thick dreads. "I need that stuff back," he repeated. "And I can't... I need help. I can't face her alone."





	Every Planet We Reach Is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Every Planet We Reach Is Dead" by the Gorillaz. Obviously.

G.B. was working at his desk when the rap came at his window.

He should have ignored it. He knew that.

But he turned off the playlist of Marshall Lee's tracks and took a deep breath. Then he opened the window. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't happy. But he wasn't as angry as he'd expected.

He supposed he'd been waiting for this.

"How did you even get up here?" he asked.

Marshall Lee was perched on the window ledge, and as usual he looked about as concerned for his safety as he would standing with both feet on the ground. He wasn't smiling either; on his face was the kind of stiff concentration associated with noodling on his bass, working out the lines of a new song.

G.B. stepped on those memories, hard. He wasn't going to push Marshall Lee out the window, but he wasn't going to soften, either. His heart had always been stone, and it would always be stone. He'd allowed himself to believe it could crack years and years ago, but that had been foolishness. Just like breaking into a building after hours or busking on a street corner. The kind of thing you did in high school, before you grew up and learned better.

Marshall Lee grinned, but it was perfunctory. The smile he used on a girl who asked him to sign her breasts after a show. "A musician never reveals his secrets."

G.B. crossed his arms. "That's magicians."

Marshall Lee shrugged. Somehow. He was still holding the window frame with both hands. And yet he seemed as at ease as if they had met in Starbucks and were forced to make small talk. "Yeah, well, I'm no Harry Houdini."

G.B. waited for the next beat of the sentence, the part where he asked to be let in. But it didn't come. Instead, the silence sagged between them.

"If you're waiting for me to ask you what you're doing here," G.B. said, only because he could not bear an unfinished conversation and not because he cared what Marshall Lee was on about, "it's not going to happen. I'm not interested. I just didn't want you to sit out there the entire night making faces at me. I've got homework to do, you know."

Marshall Lee snorted. "Please, like that's hard. You've probably read the entire textbook. Are you a TA yet?"

G.B. was surprised Marshall Lee even knew what a TA was, but he wasn't going to ask, since he wanted this interaction to be short. "If you want something from me, you'll have to cop to it yourself. I'm not interested in playing games right now. And pretty much everything you’ve said to me or anyone else since meeting Fionna has been a lie, so my patience is running thin."

Marshall Lee shifted his weight from foot to foot, which, despite G.B.'s best efforts, made him uncomfortable, because he could not banish the image of Marshall Lee splattering on their nice porch out back after a two-story fall.

G.B. pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he let out a disgusted sigh and moved some things on his desk to make a path. "Come inside before you break your stupid neck."

Marshall Lee made a face at him. "I didn't ask you if I could come in."

"Yes, well, you aren't actually a vampire, so you don't need my permission. And for God's sake, it's called a door. You don't have to come to my window every time you want to talk."

Marshall Lee frowned. It wasn't threatening or dangerous. Just... confused. G.B. remembered their hands, locked tightly together in the hospital, and closed his eyes until the image went away.

"You woulda just slammed the door in my face," said Marshall Lee, but his voice was uncertain.

G.B. chose not to answer that, since he wasn't sure if it was true. Instead, he took a step back. Marshall Lee bit his lip. Then he climbed through the window, perching on the bare spot.

"It's called a chair, Marshall Lee. You're worse than a cat."

"Cats are awesome, and I'm awesome, therefore I win at life." But the answer was, again, perfunctory. Marshall Lee had something on his mind. What, G.B. could not guess, and he did not care.

But, also again, he'd known this would happen. He'd seen Marshall Lee on and off, following Fionna to every one of his concerts and public appearances. And not just that. Marshall Lee had started attending Fionna's kendo tournaments—a figure in the back of the crowd, barely glimpsed until the proceedings were over and he could slide forward to hug her and give her some obscene compliment that should not have been said in the presence of a bunch of high school kids.

G.B. almost could have thought Marshall Lee had forgotten everything that happened that night. Fevers could do that to you. But he knew Marshall Lee remembered. He had no empirical evidence to this point, and that drove him insane, but he knew, the way he knew the orientation of his limbs in space.

G.B. settled himself into a more comfortable stance, crossing his arms again, giving no quarter. Marshall Lee, to all appearances, was fascinated by G.B.'s mug full of pencils and pens. G.B. told himself he did not care if Marshall Lee said nothing the rest of the night, but he did want to go to sleep sometime in the near future. "So did you just come here to muck up the arrangement of things on my desk, or was there a point?"

Marshall Lee set down the mug and rubbed his thighs, like he was cold. He didn't speak, but G.B. didn't think he was trying to goad G.B. into yelling at him or something. He was thinking.

Finally, he let out a breath and looked G.B. in the face.

G.B. took a step back, despite himself. He told himself he had forgotten the shade of Marshall Lee's eyes, the scar in his eyebrow, but none of that was true. He still knew that face like his own reflection. And now Marshall Lee was looking at him without any bullshit, and G.B. wished he was still perched in the window so G.B. could push him out of it. He didn't want this. Not at all. He should have known better.

Marshall Lee rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Jeebles, I'm not gonna bite you."

G.B. wasn't sure if he hated the nickname coming from Marshall Lee's lips, or if it was better than Bubba. He let out a breath, and his voice was small. "Please just cut the crap, Marshall Lee. I'm tired."

Marshall Lee's voice was equally small, but G.B. did not dare look at his face to see what expression accompanied that tone. He didn't want to have yet another picture to haunt him at night. "Listen. I know this is shitty of me, but I need your help."

"Ordinarily, I would object to your language, but that's an astute statement of the situation." G.B. realized he was digging his fingernails into his elbows and made himself relax. "It is, in fact, ‘shitty’ of you." His eyes flicked to Marshall Lee's face; he couldn't help it, nor could he help the way his upper lip curled in disgust. "You'd better have a damn good reason."

Marshall Lee raised his eyebrows, though his expression was mostly flat, dark and hidden. Once, G.B. would have wanted to peer into those cracks to find the light shining through. Now...

"Listen, all right," Marshall Lee said, pushing off G.B.'s desk. "It's about my mom."

"How many times have I told you to use antecedents to your pronouns," said G.B., but boredly. He was drained at the idea of going through all this crap again. And yet he'd still opened his window. God. How stupid was he?

"I still don't know what that means." Marshall Lee gestured as though to brush the words away. "It doesn't matter. My mom has some of my stuff, and I need it back."

G.B. almost said, "So go talk to your mother," but even now, he couldn't make himself be that cruel. Marshall Lee had never told him the whole story—Marshall Lee never told anyone the whole story—but even so.

Instead, G.B. shrugged. "What has that got to do with me?"

Marshall Lee bit his lip, hard, then pushed his hands up into his hair, tugging at his thick dreads. "I need that stuff back," he repeated. "And I can't... I need help. I can't face her alone."

"No," said G.B. It was exactly as satisfying as thinking of endless poisonous words. As digging your nails into your own flesh and twisting. As picking a scab and watching the wound bleed all over your fingers.

Marshall Lee wasn't surprised. He wasn't stupid, never mind the way he talked. "Yeah. But I had to ask." He kicked his heel against the leg of G.B.'s desk. G.B. thought about telling him to stop, but that would just make Marshall Lee keep going.

Not that Marshall Lee looked angry. G.B. had expected at least some frustration. It wasn't any good if Marshall Lee didn't snipe back.

Not that it was any good at all, really. The whole thing sucked.

"I know... I know you hate me. Or whatever." Marshall Lee absently massaged one wrist. Was he thinking about when he got sick? Because G.B. had things to say about that whole incident, now that he’d had time to think over Marshall Lee’s lies, but he wasn't going to start it. Never mind that he wanted to. "But this isn't about me. I mean, it is. But it's really... it's about Simone, okay?"

G.B. blinked. He'd imagined a thousand ways this conversation could go. Simone's name had never appeared, because Simone was the one thing Marshall Lee had never lied about. "Simone's gone." But his voice was soft, despite himself. There was another place they'd never go.

Marshall Lee didn't flinch, but G.B. wasn't sure Marshall Lee had heard him, either. His eyes were distant. "I know it won't make sense to you, but I need to get some stuff from my mom. It was Simone's, and I thought I just lost it like a dumb shit, but..." He let out a breath. "Look, it's complicated, okay." He passed a hand over his face, then took a step toward G.B. "If you help me, I'll tell you everything."

G.B.'s brow furrowed. "Tell me what?"

Marshall Lee spread his hands. "Everything. Why I didn't show. Where I've been. All that shit. I just... I need this first."

G.B. barely heard that last. His fingernails were digging into his palms; he unclenched his hands and put them in his pocket so he wouldn't hurt himself. "You talk like I want to know," he said, like he was speaking his first words in another language. "Like that knowledge would be enough to get me to care. Like every word that has come out of your mouth since I saw you at that first show has not been a lie." He made himself close his mouth and look away, but he couldn’t stop himself from continuing. “I don’t know how you talked yourself into thinking that I care any more about what’s going on in your life, but it’s not true. I don’t care a goddamn thing about you and your stupid problems anymore. They’re all your own fault anyway, since you can’t tell anyone the truth.”

Marshall Lee opened his mouth, then closed it again. They stared at each other in silence. Then Marshall Lee pushed his hands into his hair. "Fuck, I knew this was stupid." He turned and climbed out of G.B.'s window, though he hesitated before closing it behind him. "I didn't mean to bug you." He slid the window closed.

G.B. moved to the window to see how he'd gotten up there in the first place, but Marshall Lee had already disappeared.

***

G.B. could have told himself it was all a dream, but he knew it wasn't. For one thing, his desk was a mess. For another... he knew it wasn't a dream.

And he couldn't get it out of his mind.

When Marshall Lee left, G.B. had not allowed himself to wonder why. He'd buried himself in college prep and volunteer work, listening to audio books about finance and business by night and passing out food in soup kitchens by day. The only time he took a break was to cook, and that was perfunctory, an action he took because it had once brought him meaning.

And then Fionna had shown up in his life, and that was pretty good. She was never boring, so by extension she made him less boring. Maybe. After all, she seemed to like him for being boring, and that was just strange.

Anyway. He'd had plenty to keep his mind away from Marshall Lee. It was just like his parents' death. He held the memories down until the air bubbles stopped drifting up, until they calcified like a tumor. Until his heart was empty and his mind was clear and he could tell himself he felt fine. Better than fine, if he was hanging out with Fionna and her group of weird friends, even though they were all younger than him. And, again, weird.

Now he was pulling straight A's in classes and pruning a list of recipes. He was monitoring his stock accounts and his trust fund; he was browsing real estate prices nearby, looking for a place he could afford to turn into a storefront. His life was exactly how he wanted it.

But now there was this hole in it again. If he could have just forgotten Marshall Lee... well, he never would have forgotten Marshall Lee. But he could have buried it deeper and deeper inside himself, until it was a fact he could recite, like the conversion formula from Fahrenheit to Celsius.

It was all right to have questions as long as he never had a chance to know the answers. He'd never get to know what his parents would have thought about his desire to start a bakery or what great works they would have gone on to do with the charities they maintained. He felt no desire to answer those questions himself or obsess over them; they were closed possibilities.

But Marshall Lee had known exactly what to promise him to drive him crazy: answers. Never mind that G.B. had no reason to expect the truth from him—what little he’d said about his leaving said he was either lying to save face in front of Fionna or had convinced himself that something other than the truth had happened. It was working, and that was the worst part of it all, because it meant that G.B. had never put any of it behind him.

***

As always in times of tribulation, G.B. decided to consult an expert.

"You want my advice?" Cake asked, licking cupcake batter off the spoon.

G.B. had sent Fionna to the corner store, pretending he was out of chocolate chips even though that was an impossibility. He kept extra bags in the freezer in case of a baking emergency.

G.B. let out a breath. Then he nodded. "You're very good with people, Cake. Personable."

"So is Fionna." Cake raised her eyebrows. "Or at least more of an expert than you, Jeebles. No offense."

G.B. shrugged. "There's no reason to take offense at a true statement." He brushed off his hands and put them on his hips. "Fionna is also extremely trusting. You employ a healthy skepticism. Therefore, I think you'd be of more help to me. I hope, anyway."

Cake considered this. Then she shrugged. "Sure. Fire away. I'm listening."

G.B. let out a breath but did not let himself hesitate. He'd spent the last few weeks alternately talking himself in and out of this idea, and now he could finally execute it. So, as Fionna would put it, no chickening out. "Marshall Lee asked me for help."

Cake narrowed her eyes. "With what?"

"He needs to visit his abusive mother for some reason. I didn't get the details."

Cake continued squinting at him, now resting the clean spoon against her nose. "What's that got to do with you? It's a free country. Baby boy can do whatever he wants."

G.B. let out a breath. He should have known better than to think he'd be allowed to skate by with as few details as possible. He hadn't said Cake was good with people to flatter her. "You know that Marshall Lee and I used to be... friends."

Thankfully, Cake didn't press that point. G.B. could only assume that MoChro had told her the entire story at some point, since MoChro had apparently told her everything about G.B. Which made his life easier, so he wasn't complaining.

But she also was not going to make it easier on him by prompting him. G.B. almost pushed a hand through his hair. Then he remembered he still had flour all over his palms. Also, pulling his hair was an unsuitable tell that he'd have to stop doing, since Fionna had expressed no desire to stop spending time with Marshall Lee, and therefore G.B. could not afford to show weakness.

He sighed instead. "Over the course of our friendship, he made it very clear that his mother was a closed subject, but he also implicated she had treated him badly enough to destroy his sense of self-worth. Now he's stated that his mother has something that he wants back, and he needs support to go and get it."

Cake drummed her heels on the cupboards, sucking on the spoon again. G.B. wondered if she had dipped it back in the batter and decided not to ask. This was more important than questions of sanitation. Mostly. "Well, what’s the stuff?"

G.B. shrugged. "It has something to do with his foster mother. She died a few years ago. I don't know how his actual mother got hold of something to do with Simone, since as far as I know, they never met. But Marshall Lee seems to think so, and the idea causes him substantial distress. I can only assume his mother is using the object in question as some kind of blackmail."

Cake considered this, her eyes still narrowed in thought. "You should help him."

"Just like that? But you hate Marshall Lee."

"I don't hate him. I just don't want him being a bad influence on my baby girl, and Lord knows he tries, if only to tweak my nose." Cake set the spoon down and put her hands on her knees. “Fi does trust everybody. She needs somebody to protect her, and that's me. That'll be me even when she gets older. It's my job. So no, I’m not going to make friends with that boy any time soon." Cake chewed on her lower lip. "But you and him... you got something ugly between you. It's been rotting for too long. You should help him so you can put it to bed."

"I already helped him." Cake knew all about the sickness incident, since Fionna had contracted her help in making roughly a gallon of chicken soup.

But Cake shook her head. "That was just shaking dust off the problem. You woulda helped anyone like that. You're a good guy, for all you walk around all buttoned up. This is different. You don't have to do this. You can walk away, and Marshall Lee'll find some scuzzy creep to help him, or maybe he won't do at all because he's a big scaredy cat. But you should do it. You need to take a look at the dead stuff inside you and see if it's time to give it a good funeral."

G.B. let out a slow breath, closing his eyes. To his surprise, Cake slipped off the counter and put her arm around his waist (she was too short too reach his shoulders). "You're a good kid, G.B. You shouldn't be carrying around all this junk. You're not a garbage truck."

G.B. nodded, even though he didn't grasp the metaphor. He never did.

***

Marshall Lee was never hard to find these days. He had a Youtube channel, and he regularly streamed on Facebook Live, working out songs in real time for his fans and taking requests. Not that he had an actual place to stay. He either kicked around in hotel rooms paid for by his label or crashed on a bandmate's couch.

But Fionna always knew where he was. Marshall Lee was seriously teaching her the guitar now, so they met on a regular basis. And Fionna didn't balk when G.B. asked to accompany her. She had stopped making secret plans to make G.B. and Marshall Lee be friends again, but the sickness incident seemed to have soothed her, even though it wasn't proof of anything more than G.B.'s desire to have her spend time with people who weren't contagious. And Cake was right. G.B. would have done that for anyone.

Most of it, anyway.

The hotel, at least, didn't make G.B.'s skin crawl; most of the places Marshall Lee stayed looked like they deserved a turn as the haunted location of the week on Supernatural. But Marshall Lee had texted Fionna a picture in order to prove to Cake that it wouldn't give Fionna any diseases.

And there was even a couple of chairs so they didn't have to sit on the still somewhat questionable beds. Marshall Lee pulled a face at G.B. "I thought you were joking about the wet blanket," he said, slumped as usual with his bass in his lap.

Fionna plopped down into the chair next to him. G.B. handed her her guitar case—he got to carry it since Fionna tended to get overexcited and forget she was holding it, which was not good for instruments. "I told you I was bringing him," she said, ignoring the dig at G.B. "You know Cake. I'm not allowed out by myself." But her tone was bright. Fionna didn't mind that Cake wanted her taken care of.

If Marshall Lee had any recollection of their late night conversation, it didn't show in his face. He shrugged, and then he ignored G.B. for the rest of Fionna's lesson. G.B., for his part, read ahead in his econ textbooks.

When the timer on his watch beeped, he got to his feet.

"Uh-oh, is the princess gonna turn into a pumpkin?" said Marshall Lee, but he wasn't being that mean. Nothing could dull his mood when playing music. Part of the reason G.B. had thought this an apt time.

Fionna made a face. "I'm so totally not a princess. Princesses never get to do anything. Except in anime. But I don't wanna wear dresses either."

"Says the girl who wears a skirt all the time," said Marshall Lee, propping his cheek on his hand. Seeing him so relaxed felt... strange. He had never been like this with anyone, not that G.B. had seen. The closest analogue was Simone, but Marshall Lee fawned over Simone. He'd never really teased her.

G.B. brushed away the thought. Irrelevant.

"I can kick butt in this skirt." Fionna jumped to her feet, holding her fists up in a guard stance.

Marshall Lee raised his hands. "I wasn't talking shit, kiddo. Just saying. It's funny, that's all."

Fionna considered this. Then she lowered her hands and grinned. "Yeah, it is." She put her guitar back in the case and held it out to G.B.

"Fionna, I'll meet you outside in a moment," said G.B., glad he had the guitar case to hold onto so he wouldn't do anything strange with his hands.

Marshall Lee's eyes narrowed; Fionna just looked confused.

"You can pick something out for Cake in the gift shop. They have lots of cute things she would like."

Fionna wrinkled her nose. Then she shrugged. "You could just say you have to pee or whatever, you know."

G.B. decided not to argue with this, since it got her out of the room.

Marshall Lee was still frowning at him. "You know where the bathroom is," he said, pulling his legs up onto the chair. How that was comfortable, G.B. had no idea, but Marshall Lee always sat like that, and pointing it out would be too much like conversations they'd had when they were still—

Whatever.

G.B. set down Fionna's guitar case so he could put his hands on his hips. "You know why I'm here."

"Yeah, because Cake won't let Fionna alone for thirty seconds. Big deal." But Marshall Lee had tensed up.

He decided not to harp on Marshall Lee's behavior. That would only create a distraction so that G.B. would get so frustrated he'd just leave, and Cake was right. You cut tumors out. You didn't leave them to fester.

Instead, he crossed his arms. He was in a position of strength, and he intended to leverage it. He wasn't sure if it was petty behavior, and he didn't care.

Finally, Marshall Lee blew out a breath, though he wasn't looking anywhere in G.B.'s direction. "Okay, okay. I'm sorry I disturbed your highness's rest the other night. We've got a decent thing going on now. I shouldn't have fucked it up. I will perform oblations until the rooster crows thrice or whatever the fuck they do in old timey land."

G.B. blinked. "...I would have bet money on you not knowing what oblations are."

Marshall Lee smiled a secret smile, the kind that had always made G.B. want to crack his ribs open and look inside to see what was really there.

Not now, of course. G.B. had grown past such tricks.

G.B. shook his head. "Anyway, that wasn't what I came to say." He had to take in a breath before saying the next part. He was only human, after all. "I want to help you. With your mother."

Now Marshall Lee looked at him. His eyes were furious, blazing, dangerous—but the spark was gone as soon as it started, replaced by confusion. "You... what?"

"You asked for my help. I'm here to say I'll give it." G.B. did not bother pretending he wasn't enjoying Marshall Lee’s puzzlement. He was not a good person, and he knew it.

Marshall Lee's eyes narrowed, though he still looked more confused than anything. "Why?"

G.B. had spent the entire time since his conversation with Cake trying to think of a flippant response that showed how little he cared about this question. But he was not any good at flippant responses. Nor at cutting remarks, not really.

So instead he just said, "Because you asked me."

Marshall Lee opened his mouth. Then he closed it again. G.B. waited for the nasty remark, but Marshall Lee looked out the window, his jaw working. "Thank you. I... I really appreciate that."

G.B. wouldn't say that he had been hoping for a blowout, but he wouldn't have complained about it. Oh, well. Rationally he knew this was the best outcome, even if a big horrible fight would have allowed him to bury his head back in his work and stop this stupid dance.

G.B. hooked his thumbs in his pockets. "Well, all right. You know how to find me when you're ready. I need to go make sure that Fionna hasn't bought the entire gift shop."

An expression moved over Marshall Lee's face, there and gone too quickly for analysis. Not that G.B. thought he could have figured it out anyway. "Taking advantage of that trust fund, huh?"

G.B. shrugged. Was that a smile tugging at the corners of his own lips? He wasn't sure, and he didn't want to touch his face to check. "She deserves good things."

Marshall Lee nodded, looking out the window again. "That she does."

***

G.B. did not hear from Marshall Lee again for eight days. He told himself he was not surprised nor frustrated; Marshall Lee had always been this way, after all. He was like cicadas, purposefully never doing things on a sensible schedule, the better to fuck up everyone else's lives.

And, of course, he couldn't call or send a note with Fionna or something sensible and straightforward. Instead, one day when G.B. came home from night class, thinking of nothing but the alfredo he wanted for dinner, there was Marshall Lee, tucked against G.B.'s door to shelter himself from the wind. He was sleeping.

G.B. stood patiently, crushing each feeling as they rose in him. Tenderness, gentleness, care had no business being here. He was lancing a boil, that was all.

Marshall Lee stirred only when G.B. was standing right over him, keys in hand. "Oh, shit," he mumbled, passing a hand over his face. "Sorry." He wiggled his way past G.B. so G.B. could unlock the door.

"Why were you on my doorstep?" G.B. asked when they were both inside. He latched the door behind him, which made Marshall Lee roll his eyes.

Or maybe it was about the question. "I've been busy." His voice was flippant, flat. "Had a bunch of stuff to get done for the band and whatever. We're laying down tracks for the new album."

G.B. ran a hand through his hair, then hung his keys on the knob and nudged off his shoes. "Take off your boots."

Marshall Lee made an irritated noise.

G.B. narrowed his eyes. "I won't have you tracking dirt through my house, Marshall Lee. I just vacuumed."

Marshall Lee scoffed, but he took off his combat boots. They looked like the same pair G.B. remembered, only more scuffed and battered. G.B. remembered the tank top Marshall Lee was wearing too—the distressed Fall Out Boy shirt with a hole near the armpit that G.B. had sewn up for him at some point.

G.B. would not admit it to anyone, but he was glad he'd be getting answers after this. He had so many questions, and now that he'd let them loose, they wouldn't let him sleep.

Not relevant. He walked to the kitchen, ignoring the way Marshall Lee flipped on lights behind him. He wasn't sure if Marshall Lee didn't want to be in the dark or just wanted to irritate G.B. by driving up his electric bill. When they reached the kitchen, G.B. took his apron down from the hook. "Do you want some alfredo?"

Marshall Lee blinked. "I... guess?"

G.B. stuck his head in the refrigerator. "You sound puzzled. What's confusing about pasta?"

Marshall Lee snaked past G.B. to steal the basket of raspberries. G.B. decided not to fight about it, even though he'd been saving the raspberries for something special. He hadn't decided what “something special” was going to be, so he didn't get to complain. "I just expected you to be pissy, I guess." Marshall Lee sat on G.B.'s table, holding the package of raspberries but not opening it.

"Being pissy would require me to put forth effort I'm not interested in." G.B. came out with cheese, cream, butter. The fettucini he'd left next to the stove, since he knew he'd be making this after class. "I don't remember, are you allergic to shellfish? I've got shrimp if you want some."

Marshall Lee mumbled something. It was probably an insult. G.B. was not above taking pleasure in this, never mind it was bad for him. Oh, well. He'd donate more to charity this month.

G.B. shut the refrigerator, turning to face Marshall Lee. "Shrimp or no shrimp?"

"Shrimp, you fucking weirdo," Marshall Lee mumbled. He'd covered his face with his hands.

G.B. resisted the urge to hum while he worked, if only because he might end up humming one of Marshall Lee's songs, and he did not want to admit that he had been listening to them. That he could not stop listening to them, for reasons other than they were technically excellent and catchy. He started melting the butter, then got a pot out for the pasta. As it filled with water, he turned to Marshall Lee again. "So. What will this little adventure involve? Corporate espionage?"

"I don't know what that means." Marshall Lee’s voice was still a mumble. He dragged his hands down his face and set them on his knees, covering the holes in his jeans. "Why are you being so fucking weird? If you didn't want to do this, you could just say no. Don't have to pull all this bullshit to get me to leave.”

Heat flared under G.B.'s skin: familiar and not pleasurable. He bit the inside of his cheek until it passed. "I'm not being weird, I'm being me. I'm a busy individual as well, Marshall Lee, and I don't have excess time to spend on dancing around the point. I'll help you because I know you need it. So what do we have to do?" He paused. "Actually, back that up. What are we even rescuing, and how did your mother get it in the first place?"

Marshall Lee shook his head at that, looking bone tired. "You'll know when we get there. And... I don't know what we'll have to do. My mom..." He pushed his fingers up into his dreads. "She said she just wants to talk, and then she'll give the shit to me, but she's crazy and what the fuck ever, so I can't..." He closed his eyes.

G.B. was glad of that; without Marshall Lee looking, it was easier to be sympathetic to his plight. He tapped his hand against his knee. "All right. So when are we going?"

Marshall Lee shrugged. "Whenever you have time, I guess." He sighed and opened his eyes.

"Then why did you show up here tonight? You know very well how much I hate doing things after eight at night. And God knows how long this will take."

Marshall Lee fidgeted.

G.B. considered making him say it, even though he already knew the answer. But that would be uncharitable, and G.B. was trying to convince himself that he did not care. "Do you have somewhere else to go, Marshall Lee?"

Marshall Lee shook his head, avoiding G.B.'s eyes.

Well. That explained why today, anyway. G.B. thought about telling him to get out, but it wouldn't help. They'd either get into another fight, which would only delay the inevitable, or G.B. would spend the rest of the night feeling guilty instead of finishing his calc III homework.

So he sighed. "Fine. But this time you get the couch. I'm too tall for it."

Marshall Lee's mouth twisted to the side. "I didn't ask for your help. I thought you'd be home before this."

G.B. didn't even bother to look at him, instead focusing on figuring out how much fettucini they'd need for the two of them. On the one hand, Marshall Lee never ate much. On the other hand, he needed to eat more. So he shrugged and dumped the whole box in. If there were leftovers, he could bring them for his lunch tomorrow.

Speaking of which. He turned, only one hand resting on his hip since the other was holding a whisk for the sauce. "I've got class until two tomorrow."

Marshall Lee wrinkled his nose. "What, like the whole time?"

G.B. nodded.

"I thought the whole point of college is you don't have to do it all in one go." He rubbed his face. "Not that I would know."

G.B. shrugged. "I prefer efficiency. Anyway, this way I got Friday off. And I have a break for lunch."

Marshall Lee frowned, pushing off the table. "Maybe I should just go. I can crash somewhere."

G.B. glared at him. "Don't even think about it. I want this issue over and done with. So you can come with me to class tomorrow, and then we'll go and find your mother." He paused. "Unless it involves sneaking into her office at night or something. I'm not okay with corporate espionage. That was the point I was trying to make earlier before you distracted me like you always do."

"What makes you think she works in an office?" But Marshall Lee's voice was sullen, not challenging, so G.B. knew he was winning.

G.B. squashed the urge to be smug about it, shrugging instead. "I Googled your mom, duh. Abadeer's not really a common last name. And Night Holdings is a massive corporation. Not to mention her super PAC."

Marshall Lee groaned, and G.B. heard a thump that suggested he'd fallen back on the table. G.B. decided not to look, since it would only encourage this kind of behavior.

Was he enjoying himself too much? He was.

He schooled his face to blankness, reminded himself this was a soul-cleansing exercise, and turned to face Marshall Lee, who was in fact laying on the table with his legs dangling over the edge, his hands resting on the top.

"This is a really small table," said Marshall Lee, his eyes on the ceiling.

G.B. shrugged. "I don't need much. If I want to have dinner with Pepper, I go downstairs. And Fionna doesn't come over here much."

Marshall Lee kicked his heel against one of the table legs. Again, G.B. decided against protesting even though it really did drive him insane. "So. What's the plan?" He smelled nuts and glanced over his shoulder; his butter had finished browning, so he started making the alfredo sauce.

He wasn't even sure if he was gonna get an answer. But it came. Reluctantly. "She just wanted me to meet her at her house," he mumbled. "She... she saw my band and stuff online, I guess. And she wants to talk to me. And she has a bunch of Simone's stuff and I want it back."

"That's so... reasonable."

Marshall Lee's eyes narrowed. Then he pushed himself up off the table. "You know what, this was a dumb fucking idea. Forget I asked."

G.B. moved to block the exit without even thinking.

Marshall Lee glared at him. Well, at G.B.'s chest. He wasn't looking at G.B.'s face, and he was too short to meet G.B.'s eyes without looking up. "You can stop pretending like you care. I won't tell anyone. We can pretend this never happened, just like you always wanted."

G.B. had planned to say something flippant, because it would feel so, so good to irritate Marshall Lee that way, but the last sentence took him aback. He looked down at Marshall Lee, his eyes narrowing even though it didn't help him make sense of what was going on. "What?"

Marshall Lee kept glaring at his chest. "It's fine, okay. It's just stuff."

"No." Marshall Lee tried to push past him; G.B. gripped his upper arm, holding him still. He'd always been larger than Marshall Lee, but during their time apart the difference had become even starker; he could almost wrap his whole hand around Marshall Lee's arm. He didn't care for it.

Marshall Lee didn't try to shake him, just kept staring straight ahead.

But that wouldn't last, and G.B. forced himself to cut through the noise in his head to get to the point. He had a million questions, yes, and now he had one more. "You thought I wanted to forget—"

He couldn't even say it. His hand slackened on Marshall Lee's arm, and Marshall Lee jerked away, taking a step back. Now he looked up into G.B.'s face, his eyes bright and venomous. "What, you fucking didn't? Tell me, Barnabas. Would you have said we'd met before if I pretended I didn't recognize you?"

G.B. stared at him, barely able to wrap his head around the question.

"Would you?" Marshall Lee shouted.

G.B.'s jaw worked. The words fell from his lips like ice chips. "You're the one who left. And you’re the one who lied about it."

"Yeah! I left! That's what I fucking do!" Marshall Lee shoved him. Surprised, G.B. stumbled, even though there was no strength behind it. "I leave, okay? I leave. I'm a useless piece of shit who can't stay nailed down to one place. I told you that, so don't you try and pretend like you were surprised. I—" He broke off, suddenly, and turned away, hugging himself. "I had my reasons."

G.B. opened his mouth. The words were there. They had always been inside him; they had played on an endless loop in his head since his high school graduation. How could you leave me. Fuck you. How could you make me care about you. Why do you lie and say such horrible things. How could you leave me. Where did you go. How could you leave me.

How could you leave me.

But they were dead inside his chest. Just ash and bile, and he was tired of tasting them. He was tired of letting this crush him.

G.B. blew out a breath. It didn't get rid of the words. They were still there. He supposed they would always be there. He crossed his arms, shoring up his posture so Marshall Lee couldn't shove past him. "Sit down. The food'll be ready in a minute."

Marshall Lee glared at him. "You—" He pushed his hands up against his eyes. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I could ask you the same question. Or we could sit down, eat dinner, and tomorrow we can get this sorted and you can hold up your end of the bargain."

Marshall Lee's mouth worked. His eyes moved over G.B.'s face. G.B. wondered what he saw there.

Finally, Marshall Lee let a disgusted sigh and dragged his fingers over his face. "Fine, fine, what the fuck ever. You're crazy, you know that?"

"At least I sit on chairs, not tables."

***

It wasn't awkward after that, and that was probably the strangest part. G.B. finished dinner; Marshall Lee helped him make garlic bread. And not even the kind of helping that was mostly getting in the way—he grated the cheese and stared at the microwave while the butter melted.

They ate in silence. Then G.B. had homework to do.

"Can I use your keyboard?" Marshall Lee asked, the first thing he'd said since their argument.

G.B. gestured at it. "Feel free. I've got blank sheet music around here somewhere if you need to write something down."

Marshall Lee scoffed. Whether it was at the idea that he would need to write anything down or the idea that G.B. would not know exactly where everything was in his home, G.B. wasn't sure. Nor did he ask.

He usually did his homework sitting at his desk, his back perfectly straight as he typed or read. But Marshall Lee's music drifted in through his open door, and he could read just as well on the couch.

***

G.B. didn't realize he'd fallen asleep reading until something jabbed him in the ribs. He grabbed the offending object until he realized it was Marshall Lee's hand. He pulled away immediately. Marshall Lee didn't move; he was leaning over the arm of the couch, his mouth crinkled in a frown. "You were snoring," he said, even though G.B. hadn't asked. Had not in fact registered what was happening. "And you said you wanted me to sleep on the couch."

G.B. pushed himself up on his elbows and groaned. "Yes. I do. Let me get you a pillow."

"Just tell me where they're at. I forgot you sleep like a fucking rock."

G.B.'s chest tightened, and he pushed himself off the couch. "No. Are you ready to go to bed?"

Marshall Lee shrugged. "I'll probably just dick around on my phone, but yeah."

G.B.'s eyes narrowed. "You have a cell phone?"

Marshall Lee shrugged again, avoiding his eyes. "My record label makes me," he mumbled. "It's dumb. But I like all the dance games and shit."

G.B. decided against saying anything about that. It wasn’t like he wanted Marshall Lee to call him anymore. "Whatever. You're coming to class with me tomorrow, remember. I won't have you falling asleep."

He went to the linen closet. Marshall Lee followed, frowning. "Wait, you were serious about that? What am I supposed to do?"

"You're free to 'dick around on your phone' or whatever you feel like. I emailed my professors and told them I was bringing a guest, but both of my classes tomorrow are gen eds, so there's quite a few people. They won't notice an extra."

Marshall Lee fidgeted, though he accepted the pillow G.B. passed him, pressing his face into it. "There's a lot of people?" he mumbled.

G.B. wasn't sure what to make of that. "No more than at the smallest of your venues, I'm certain."

Marshall Lee didn't say anything.

G.B. rolled his eyes since Marshall Lee couldn't see it anyway. "We'll sit in the back. It will be fine."

Marshall Lee still didn't lift his head from the pillow.

"Do you have an issue you wish to discuss, Marshall Lee?" G.B. said, putting a hand on his hip.

"No. This just smells really good. Do you lace it with crack or something?"

G.B. thought about dumping his armful of blankets on Marshall Lee's head, but then he'd have to pick them up. He settled for shoving Marshall Lee back toward the couch.

***

G.B. was still tired—it was after eleven, when he was normally in bed by ten—but it took him a while to get back to sleep. He had a crick in his neck, from sleeping on the couch. And he kept hearing the melody Marshall Lee had been working on.

***

His alarm went off at five, like every morning, and G.B. was halfway to the bathroom before he remembered he had a house guest.

He knew Marshall Lee wouldn't be awake. But still. He peered into the living room. Marshall Lee had made a nest out of the blankets. G.B. might have thought he'd left, but the blankets were rising and falling.

Well. G.B. needed the shower first anyway.

***

When he was clean and dressed, he checked on Marshall Lee. Still nothing but a lump.

G.B. tugged on the pillow poking out of the edge of the blankets. "I'm making breakfast. Do you want to shower?"

The blankets made a noise that might have been assent or just a sleep noise.

G.B. tugged on the pillow again. "Marshall Lee. Get up and shower."

Nothing.

G.B. decided against doing anything more. He went into the kitchen. After a few minutes, a figure wreathed in blankets peered in the door. "Will you make pancakes?" Marshall Lee mumbled.

"Yes. Go shower."

Marshall Lee said something that, again, could have been sleep noises or assent.

G.B. watched him go, staring after him long beyond when he was out of sight.

***

They did have pancakes. G.B. put chocolate chips in them because that was his favorite kind, and Marshall Lee was only just conscious. At least, that was how G.B. decided to interpret his pensive, fixed expression. He knew he never really had any idea what was going on in Marshall Lee’s head.

***

To his surprise, Marshall Lee didn't make a fuss about going to class with G.B., but he did balk at taking the bus. "Dude, I've got my bike."

That made G.B. stop short. He followed Marshall Lee's pointing finger. It was not the same motorbike. That one had been secondhand, clearly kept alive past its time. This one was brand new, shiny and chrome.

Marshall Lee bounced the keys in his palm. "Yeah. Being a corporate slave comes with a couple of perks, I guess."

"Not a place to live, though," said G.B. He hadn't meant to make a fuss this early in the day, but no taking it back, he supposed.

Marshall Lee shrugged. "Actually, they offered me a place. Couple of my bandmates are always looking for another roomie. But I don't like being tied down. And hell, if they'll pay for the hotel, why not?"

G.B. decided not to argue with this. "I don't want to take your bike. You’re a terrible driver."

And he could not banish the image of the first time he'd ridden behind Marshall Lee: the way it had felt to wrap his arms around Marshall Lee's thin frame, forced to trust him for the first time. And beyond that image were a thousand others he had not allowed himself to touch in so, so long.

Goddammit.

"I'm just saying, dude, you could ride the bus with a bunch of hungover assholes, or you could get on my bike and be early."

G.B. didn't have an argument. He still didn't want to do it.

***

The helmets Marshall Lee took out of the basket on the back were the same, just as heavy and even more scuffed and dented. G.B. stared resolutely at the new bike instead, trying to banish the images that still tried to crawl their way up out of the depths of his mind. The same place where he stored the few clear images from his childhood. He didn't want this. He didn't want any of it.

***

He still got on the bike, of course. He didn't tighten his arms around Marshall Lee, even when Marshall Lee took curves at sickening speeds or stopped short enough to jolt them both. He wasn't really a bad driver. People just didn't respect motorbikes. But G.B. did not enjoy the experience.

He also realized he didn't have a parking pass, so they had to feed quarter after quarter into a meter to avoid having to park ten blocks away.

"This is why I take the bus," said G.B., handing Marshall Lee the helmet.

***

Marshall Lee was polite during G.B.'s lectures. G.B. had expected him to leer at the other students as they came in or flick paper footballs down the length of the lecture hall. But he flipped through G.B.'s textbook and wrote questions on the corner of G.B.'s notes, which G.B. answered when the professor wasn't talking.

"I forgot that school is kinda fun," Marshall Lee announced after class, as they headed for the commons so G.B. could microwave his lunch. He'd only just remembered to pack extra, which would throw off his lunch schedule, but maybe he'd treat himself to something. He’d certainly earned it after all this insanity.

"I love school," said G.B. absently, his eyes flicking over the lounge area, looking for somewhere to sit. Normally he didn't care where, since he put his headphones in and tuned out anyone around him, but Marshall Lee had clammed up at the sight of the crowd. They found a table in the corner. G.B. shrugged off his messenger back and set it on his chair. "Can I trust you with my things so I can get our lunch ready?"

Again, G.B. expected some kind of shit test, but Marshall Lee looked up at him in honest surprise. "You brought me lunch too?"

G.B. rolled his eyes. "No. I was going to leave you to starve all day while preparing for an emotionally fraught encounter. You'd better eat it."

Marshall Lee wrinkled his nose. "It has vegetables in it, doesn't it."

"It's vegetable soup, so yes, that’s the point. Now stay here."

As he waited in line for one of the two decrepit microwaves that serviced the entire student rest area, he touched his mouth and realized he was smiling. He swallowed hard. It just felt... so familiar. Like part of him had always waited to fall back into these routines. Like part of him was always meant to care for Marshall Lee.

He didn't feel hungry any longer, but the smile stayed on his face no matter what he thought about.

***

G.B. didn't feel like eating, so he bullied Marshall Lee into finishing his portion, if only so he could clean out his lunch bowls. Marshall Lee was fascinated by the way they stacked together. "This is the most you thing I've ever seen," he said, screwing and unscrewing the lid of the soup cup.

"Don't think you'll get out of eating it, Marshall Lee," said G.B., scooping up the last bit of his vegetables. "You can make as many faces as you want, but you barely had breakfast."

Marshall Lee made a face at him, but he finished his lunch.

***

And he was polite during Marshall Lee's business accounting lecture, too, although even G.B. had to admit the professor was dryer than the Sahara.

***

They walked back to Marshall Lee's motorbike in silence. The meter still had an hour left, which made Marshall Lee wrinkle his nose, but G.B. shrugged. "It's polite to leave some time. In case the next person doesn't have enough change. They charge an arm and a leg for parking here, after all."

Marshall Lee handed G.B. his helmet, looking at G.B.'s face so G.B. could not avoid looking back. "You really like it here, don't you?"

G.B. blinked. "I picked this place because it has the best business program in the state," he said, frowning. "So yes, I like it. I'm paying enough to go here."

Marshall Lee opened his mouth like he was going to say something else. Then he just shook his head, propping his hand on the seat of his bike. His jaw worked, and G.B. decided not to prod him in case he just hopped on and drove away.

And. He wanted to know what Marshall Lee would tell him, although he would never, ever admit that fact.

Finally, Marshall Lee blew out a breath and pushed a hand through his hair. "Last chance to back out, I guess."

G.B. rolled his eyes. He shouldn't have been surprised. "Let's go, Marshall Lee."

***

G.B.had spent part of his deliberation time obsessively Googling Hanna Abadeer's company, so he knew when they were getting close to her office. It was a hideous building, mixing several architectural styles like it was formed out of several cannibalized buildings, the way Hanna's company was made out of several cannibalized companies. She was known for being a ruthless negotiator, and also for the fact that absolutely no one knew anything about her. Much like Marshall Lee, she appeared on the corporate scene a decade or so ago with no traceable past. Posts that purported to know her history were purged without mercy. Night Holdings had a Wikipedia page, but any references to its founder and CEO were dead links.

To put it simply, G.B. was nervous. He didn't know how Marshall Lee was going to react, and he didn't know what Marshall Lee's mother was actually like. Marshall Lee's veiled references to abuse weren't just talk, but he didn't know how deep the rabbit hole went.

Marshall Lee's attitude wasn't helping. He parked his bike at the end of the street with just enough space, ignoring drivers who honked at him, and waited for G.B. to take his helmet off with an expression like a man awaiting his final meal. G.B. thought about telling him not to be so dramatic, but he couldn't bring himself to. It was okay to lash out at Marshall Lee when he was being a jerk, but lashing out to soothe his own nervousness was not.

The lobby was subdued: the furnishings were black with jewel-red drapery and a thick, plush red carpet. G.B. thought about making a joke, but he was not good at jokes at the best of times, and he didn't think Marshall Lee would have heard him.

A woman at the front desk greeted them and tried to get their attention, but Marshall Lee marched past her to a pair of black elevator doors. He pulled a keycard out of his pocket and held it up to the scanner; the doors slid open. G.B. waved at the woman at the desk, to ease some of the sting.

The elevator ride was a long one, since the building was 30 stories tall. Marshall Lee spent it huddled in the corner, his eyes tightly closed.

"I've told you there's nothing to be afraid of about elevators," said G.B., trying to gentle his voice. "They're perfectly safe."

Marshall Lee didn't open his eyes. "Not the elevator."

G.B. decided to shut up. He bit his lip, hard, but the idea would not leave his mind, and so he took Marshall Lee's hand, the one that wasn't digging into his scalp. Marshall Lee didn't startle; he latched on to G.B.'s hand so hard it hurt.

When they got to the top floor, the doors didn't open immediately.

"Do you have to use your keycard again or something?" said G.B. after a moment. Elevators were safe. That did not mean he wanted to spend the rest of his day in one.

Marshall Lee nodded, still without opening his eyes or coming out of the corner.

G.B. bit his lip. "Do you want to go back downstairs?"

He'd told himself he wasn't sympathetic, that none of this mattered to him, that he wasn't enjoying himself. That he'd be able to turn his back on Marshall Lee easily once things were said and done.

But he still remembered all of their conversations. He still remembered how alone Marshall Lee always looked, even surrounded by fans.

And...

G.B. was so tired. People told you walls kept you safe. They didn't tell you how much work it was to maintain them, how your hands grew cracked and bloody from stacking brick after brick, how you could stop maintaining them for even a moment. Not really.

"Marshall Lee," he said softly. "It's all right. We can go back."

Marshall Lee moved his hand from his hair to his face so he could peer through his fingers at G.B. G.B. looked at him evenly. Marshall Lee moved toward him. He still fit perfectly in G.B.'s arms, and wasn't that a joke.

"I'm sorry," Marshall Lee whispered against G.B.'s chest. "I'm sorry."

At least Marshall Lee couldn't see his expression, but G.B. wasn't even sure what it was, anyway. His heart felt too full and too empty at the same time. "We can go back," he repeated, even though he had no idea what would happen after that. Would Marshall Lee ask him again? Would they just pretend this had never occurred?

But Marshall Lee shook his head, then pulled away as abruptly as he'd approached. He brushed his hands over his eyes. "That was bullshit of me," he muttered, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

G.B. thought about asking him to be more specific, but the longer this went on, the less he wanted concrete answers. He wouldn't like them anyway. "Do you want to go in?" he said instead.

Marshall Lee nodded. He lifted his eyes to G.B.'s face, albeit slowly. "I'll tell you everything. After."

G.B. decided against responding. He didn't know what to say.

***

Hanna Abadeer looked exactly as ruthless as her corporate history made her sound. She was sitting at a desk that could have doubled as the Stone Table in a production of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, post-slaying of Aslan. The gems that sparkled at her ears and throat were real rubies, and the heels she had propped on the corner of her desk went for seven hundred dollars. At least. And she smiled like a snake. She was even darker than Marshall Lee; her hair was pulled back in dozens of tiny braids, each topped with a ceramic bead that clicked as she moved.

"You brought company," she said. Her voice was not like the rest of her. It was like Marshall Lee's: musical, even when he wasn't singing. Even when he was spewing bile. She took her feet off the desk so she could stand, smoothing down her skirt. She was one of those people who defined the term power suit. "I didn't know you had any friends. Is he a groupie?"

G.B. scoffed, despite himself, and Hanna's attention snapped to him. He stiffened, despite himself, feeling like a mouse caught in the bright yellow gaze of an owl. He realized he was still holding Marshall Lee's hand—how had that happened?—and dropped it, instead extending his palm to shake. "G.B. Baldric, ma'am."

Her eyes flicked over his face. Yes. He was definitely prey. Then she shook his hand. She had a pleasant grip, firm without battling for dominance like the people G.B. met in his finance clubs. "Well, you're certainly too clean cut to be spending time with my Marshall."

Marshall Lee sighed.

G.B. withdrew his hands. He put them in his pocket so he wouldn't do anything strange with them. Like punch Hanna. "Opposites attract, I suppose."

Hanna smiled. G.B. could not tell if it was false. "Trite but true, I suppose. That's how I ended up with Marshall's father, after all."

G.B. realized he had never once wondered what Marshall Lee's father had been like. Had he ever mentioned a father?

Hanna turned her attention to her son. "Everybody has a flight of fancy now and then, I suppose. And at least he can't get you pregnant. Presumably you don't have the equipment for that, though pardon me if you do." Marshall Lee stared at his boots. "Aren't you even going to say hello, dear?" She took a step toward him and set her hand alongside his cheek. Marshall Lee didn't flinch away from the touch, but he didn't lean into it, either. "I do appreciate you coming to see me. I had thought you weren't going to."

"I just want my stuff back, Mom," he mumbled without lifting his eyes. "Please."

Hanna laughed. From someone else, it might have been a charming sound. She was not beautiful, but she was handsome. G.B. had never appreciated the difference until now. "I know, but sit down. I don't talk business standing up." She gestured at the two chairs in front of her desk. G.B. moved first, and Marshall Lee followed reluctantly. Though they seemed to be patterned after Iron Maidens, they were very comfortable.

Hanna herself perched on the edge of that massive desk. One hand stroked the rubies at her throat. "And I didn't want this to be business, you know. You're the one who continues to insist this has to be nasty."

Marshall Lee's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything.

G.B. wanted to put a hand on his knee. He did not.

Hanna waited for a response, then shrugged and turned her attention to G.B. "I bet you're wondering what this is all about. I'm sure he told you I was holding his things ransom in exchange for his time, and I suppose I might be, but if it's the only way to get to see him after years apart, I don't consider it a crime. He ran away, you know."

G.B. blinked. He felt like he should tell Hanna to stop—but at the same time, he had never allowed himself to wonder how Marshall Lee had ended up on the street, bouncing from house to house and friend to friend. He'd always known Marshall Lee wouldn't tell him, after all. And he knew this was not the right way to find out, but he also knew he was deathly curious.

She was waiting for a response, and Marshall Lee tensed up. G.B. put on his best vague face. He'd never had to hold a customer service job, but he would someday, when he opened his bakery, and so he'd spent time practicing a blank, pleasant expression. He knew it was working when it freaked Fionna out. "I didn't know that, actually, but there's plenty I don't know about Marshall Lee. That's not relevant, though. I'm just here as backup. In case it's not obvious, I'm a lot stronger than he is, so I’m good at carrying heavy things."

Hanna blinked once, like a well fed lioness laying in the sun, watching a herd of antelope move across the savanna in the distance. "He didn't even tell you what he came here to get, did he?" Her voice was gentle and understanding. "I shouldn't suppose I'm surprised." She drew out a box from under her desk. "This is all." The box was taped shut, so G.B. could not tell what was inside. "It's quite light. I don't relish lifting things in high heels, but even I wouldn't mind carrying it."

G.B. decided against replying. He didn't like being played with.

Hanna nodded, as though to acknowledge this, and set the box back on the floor. "I'm sorry. It's rude of me to try and pry information out of you. Though I'm sure you can see why I'm trying." She gestured at Marshall Lee, who still hadn't spoken.

G.B. shrugged. "Marshall Lee doesn't talk a lot anyway. And I made him go to class with me today, so he's probably still getting over that."

A considering look crossed Hanna's face, there and gone so quickly G.B. might have thought he'd imagined it. But he hadn't. "So you're in college?"

G.B. nodded. "I'm a sophomore."

"Do you live in the dorms?"

"With my foster mother." G.B. could not help emphasizing the foster part slightly. Not because Pepper wasn’t a real mother to him—when he tried to picture his birth mother, he had to push away images of Pepper’s round face—but because he was thinking of Simone, and he couldn't help but wonder if the box contained those pictures that had once hung over the mantel in her house. G.B. had no idea where Hanna would have gotten them, but stranger things had happened.

Hanna's eyes narrowed, but just for a moment. Then she was all smiles again. "Well. It's good you have someone to look after you. I know you boys are both technically adults—my Marshall can even buy alcohol, and I'm still trying to wrap my head around that fact—but I don't think I'll ever stop seeing him as my baby boy." She put her cheek on her hand, turning her attention to Marshall Lee. "Won't you say a word to me, Marshall?"

Marshall Lee let out a long, slow breath. G.B. held himself perfectly still because he wasn't sure what he would do otherwise. He knew he couldn't interrupt, and he didn't know how he would have, either—but he couldn't show support, either, since he hadn't reached out when he had the chance.

Did he want to reach out? He had no idea.

Marshall Lee lifted his head. G.B. drew back a little, anticipating shouting, dramatics. But Marshall Lee just said, "I don't like just Marshall, Mom. Everybody calls me Marshall Lee."

His mother raised her eyebrows. G.B. waited for the explosion, for something bad.

But then she nodded. "You should have said something earlier. I never meant it to be one name, but it sounds good together."

Marshall Lee nodded. He didn't smile.

"Anything else you'd like to tell me?"

Marshall Lee swallowed hard, then stood. Hanna frowned slightly, but Marshall Lee didn't make a move to leave. G.B. wondered if he should stand up, too—he felt stupid sitting down—but again, he'd missed his chance. And he was afraid of disturbing the scene. Marshall Lee was feral, never domesticated. He'd bolt if you came too close too quickly.

"You seem really different, Mom," said Marshall Lee, his words halting, nothing like his usual rhythmic tone. "And I'm really different too, but I've got a lot on my plate with the band and shit. I can't do this all right now or I'll fuck something up and get fired." He scuffed his foot across the rich carpeted floor. "Can we do it slow?"

Hanna cocked her head. She stood, slowly, like she had a bird balanced on her window and wanted a picture without scaring it away. Marshall Lee swallowed hard but didn't move. Hanna put her hand alongside his face. Marshall Lee closed his eyes but did not flinch away.

They were the same height standing next to each other, though Hanna was curved and soft where Marshall Lee was all angles and sharp drop offs. They weren't images of each other, but echoes.

G.B. found himself wondering what Marshall Lee's father looked like and turned his face away.

"We can do it however you like. You'll come around," said Hanna.

G.B. glanced at them, expecting an explosion, but Marshall Lee was still, though Hanna had drawn back her hand.

She looked Marshall Lee over. G.B. could not read her expression. Then she spread her hands. "I won't push you. A concession is more than I was expecting. You can have your prize. But can I have a hug first?"

Marshall Lee hesitated. Then he took a step toward his mother, almost unwillingly. She closed the distance between them and put her arms around him, one hand secure around his back, the other cradling his head. Marshall Lee didn't relax so much as he collapsed against her, though he didn't put his arms around her in return.

Hanna didn't seem to mind. She stroked his dreads and hummed softly, her expression unreadable. Then she kissed the top of his head and let him go. Marshall Lee stayed where he was, his arms coming up around himself slowly, like he was dreaming. If Hanna noticed, she didn't show it. She walked over to the desk and picked up the box from the floor. "Here." She set it on her desk and pushed it toward them. "Just don't make me hold something ransom to get to see you again."

Marshall Lee shook his head. He didn't seem able to speak.

G.B. picked up the box. It seemed like the right thing to do, and Marshall Lee's eyes flicked to him for the first time since walking in the room, so maybe it was.

***

They went back into the elevator. G.B. reached for the first floor button, but Marshall Lee shook his head. G.B. offered him the box, and Marshall Lee nodded, his jaw working. G.B. didn't think he could speak.

Marshall Lee took the box, then walked to the same corner he'd stood in before and slid down the wall until he was on the floor with his back against the wall. He opened the box. Inside was a battered stuffed animal. It might have been a bear or octopus or lizard; it was battered beyond recognition, stained and patched and tattered. Marshall Lee looked at it for a long moment. Then he pressed it to his chest, closing his eyes.

G.B. squatted in front of him. Marshall Lee shifted so G.B. could lift one of the paws. Or hands. He wasn't quite sure. The stuffed toy might have been blue at one point, or maybe dark gray, but now it was colorless from countless washes. "We came all this way for your teddy bear?"

He hated himself the second it was out of his mouth.

Marshall Lee pressed further into the corner, holding the animal tighter against his chest. He swiped one arm across his eyes. "I know it's stupid. You don't have to tell me. But it was the first thing Simone ever gave me." His voice broke on Simone's name, and though he pressed his face into his shoulder it didn't hide the tears streaming down his face.

G.B. hesitated. Then he put a hand on Marshall Lee's knee. "That's not what I meant," he said softly. "Just... how did your mom get it?"

Marshall Lee made a noise that might have been dunno or fuck off.

G.B. groped around inside himself, looking for the anger. Looking for the sharp words, like broken glass at the bottom of a cereal box instead of a toy.

But they were gone.

He was just... so tired.

He moved next to Marshall Lee. Marshall Lee tried to pull away, but G.B. put an arm around his shoulders. Marshall Lee kept his face away, though he didn't struggle. "Come home with me," said G.B. He didn't recognize his own voice.

Marshall Lee mumbled something. G.B. leaned closer, and Marshall Lee repeated himself. "Okay. Okay."

***

The house was very still when G.B. got home, and he remembered Pepper was out of town for a long weekend. Well. That was all for the good. He didn't feel like answering questions, not when he had no answers. He was afraid of what might come out of his mouth if someone put him on the spot.

They hadn't spoke since leaving Hanna's office. Marshall Lee's driving hadn't even made G.B. feel nervous; he was hollowed out, waiting for something to fill it. Had he always felt this way? It was so familiar. Maybe there had never been anything inside him after all.

G.B. had tucked the stuffed animal back into the box after they got out of the elevator; when Marshall Lee parked his bike outside G.B.'s place, he took it out of the compartment under the seat before putting away G.B.'s helmet. He rested the box against his hip, like a woman might hold a child.

They got inside, and G.B. sat down hard on his couch without even taking his shoes off. To his surprise, Marshall Lee paused at the door and set down the box so he could unlace his boots and set them beside the mat. Then he joined G.B. on the couch, settling the box on his lap. They sat there in silence, staring blankly at the wall across from the couch.

"Why don't you have a TV?" said Marshall Lee.

G.B. couldn't muster up the energy to be irritated. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing. But you're rich. So why don't you have a TV?"

"What would I do with it? I don't watch TV."

"You're so fucking weird." But the words had no teeth.

G.B. let out a long, slow breath. "You're going to make me ask, aren't you?"

Marshall Lee closed his eyes, just as slowly. "I never said I was any good." He waited a beat. "You can always tell me to leave." The words were hardly a whisper.

"No, I can't, and you know it." G.B. let out another breath, reaching into himself for that tangle of questions that always made it so hard to think. But it wasn't there. His mind was silent. He'd only felt this quiet one other time in his life, but this wasn't anywhere near as good. "How did Hanna get that?" He nodded at the box. He didn't want to press too much on the Simone matter. He'd liked her too, after all.

"Too much." Marshall Lee still had his eyes closed.

G.B. wrinkled his nose. "Too much what?"

Marshall Lee opened his mouth, then closed it again, and then managed, haltingly, "Part of the reason I haven't... I know I should have told you all this stuff before. I acted like a fucking prick. Because I am a fucking prick, and nobody's been around to tell me I'm wrong for... for a while now." He cracked his eyes.

Was he talking about G.B.? G.B. squashed that question. He did not want to know.

Marshall Lee watched him through slitted eyes, then closed them again. He always had preferred talking in the dark. "It's just... it's too big, okay? Like five million fucked up things happened in my life, and it's, like, where the fuck do I even start?"

He swallowed, and then he opened his eyes and leaned toward G.B., so their shoulders were almost touching. He did not quite close the distance between them, but G.B. could feel that he wanted to.

G.B. didn't move toward him. Not because he felt like being petty and withholding touch. Somehow they'd crossed that line, and he did not want to think about what that meant and why it had happened and how Marshall Lee's touch always had been and always would be different from MoChro's or Fionna's or Pepper's.

No. G.B. just didn't want to give Marshall Lee a chance to derail the conversation. He needed answers, and he knew if he let them slip through his fingers even once, they'd be gone for good.

So he blew out a breath. "Okay, smaller. Fine." He brushed a hand over his hair. "Well, what is that, anyway?"

Marshall Lee opened the box, though he didn't take the stuffed animal out. He just smiled, though it didn't touch his eyes. "Hambo."

G.B. bit back a sigh, because he knew from Marshall Lee's tone that he'd need more prompting. "And what is Hambo?"

Marshall Lee's brow furrowed, but gently. He took Hambo out of the box, almost reverently, and pushed the box onto the floor. G.B., again, bit back a sigh. A bit of litter was not all that much in the grand scheme of things. "I dunno, actually. I got him when I was so little I don't remember what he used to be. I think his legs used to be shorter, but one of them broke off, so Simone sewed him new ones."

"And Simone gave him to you?"

Marshall Lee nodded. His eyes moved over the stitches crisscrossing Hambo's body, but his mind was clearly somewhere else. "I... I got lost. When I was really little. I dunno how old. I can't remember if my mom forgot me somewhere—she did that—or if I ran away or something. But I was crying, and then somebody found me, and she gave me this. I didn't know it was Simone then."

His eyes hardened, and he clutched the toy to his chest, but absently, taking no comfort from it. "She took me to the police station, and I ended up in foster care. That time I know I ran away. The cops found me, but I wouldn't let anybody keep me."

G.B. drew in a sharp breath. "Fionna was in foster care, too, you know," he said softly. "She just got lucky and ended up with Cake's parents."

Marshall Lee nodded slowly, his eyes still far away. "She woulda found somebody anyway. She's a cute white girl. Nobody wanted a little black kid who screamed in his sleep and wet the bed."

Part of him wanted to press for details. He knew the statistics, after all, what happened to kids like Marshall Lee left to the mercy of the state. And he knew Marshall Lee would tell him; he was keeping his promise to tell the truth. But for once G.B. decided he was happy without all the facts.

He decided to focus on the important part. "But Simone did."

Marshall Lee didn't smile, exactly, far from it. But his frown lifted, just a touch. "Yeah, sort of. I kinda kicked around for a while there, but I kept running into her—she did a lot of community outreach or what the fuck ever when she was younger. She always remembered my name. It was crazy." He pressed Hambo against his chest, but absently, without looking at it. "When I was like ten or eleven, I got old enough where they started asking me to help out when I came to the shelter. Make sure the younger kids hadn't pissed themselves, whatever. Simone was always there until we closed. And she asked me to walk her home because she didn't want to go on the streets herself. Even though she'd done it every day for years, I guess." He blew out a breath. "Then she gave me a key to her place, and I just started crashing there. She never asked me to stay. She never acted weird when I was gone for a while, either. Just... sometimes I was there, and sometimes I wasn't, and she was cool with all of it. It was... whatever, I guess."

He curled in on himself. "I was so fucking stupid," he whispered, pressing his face against his shoulder.

G.B. bit back a sigh. It wasn't at Marshall Lee; it was at himself, and his pride, and the feelings inside him that were so fucked up and weird he had no idea what to do with them.

He'd learned one thing, though, since Marshall Lee had gone, from Fionna of all people. You never regretted giving someone else a hug.

So he closed the slight distance between them and put his arms around Marshall Lee. Marshall Lee didn't relax against him; he stayed stiff and still, not making a noise. He wasn't crying, but he was breathing hard, like he'd just finished running a marathon. G.B. didn't hold him tightly, but he did think about how natural it felt to have Marshall Lee in his arms again, and how disconcerting that was. Why did it still feel right? It should have been awful. He shouldn't have missed it.

He didn't want to think anymore, so he asked another question instead. "So did she adopt you?"

Marshall Lee let out a long, slow breath, but he didn't push away or relax. "Yeah, eventually. She just did it one day without warning me that's what we were going to be doing. I didn't stop her 'cause it meant the cops would stop trying to pick me up. But she never made me do anything. She never acted like it meant anything."

He pushed away, but not hard; his eyes were focused on the past. "She always told me, 'Marshall Lee, you make things too hard on yourself. I just want to make them easier.'" He let out a breath. "That didn't sound anything like her."

It didn't, but G.B. didn't agree, in case that got them sidetracked. Instead, he said, "Okay, so that's... Hambo." He wanted to ask where the name came from, but then they'd be off again, and he wanted to get some answers before Marshall Lee shut down completely. "How did your mom get it?"

Marshall Lee's eyes narrowed, and G.B. thought he was going to protest that it was too big again, but then he said, "My mom bought Simone's house."

G.B. blinked. "You said she left the place to you."

Marshall Lee nodded, his eyes still narrowed like he was studying a complicated spreadsheet. "I dunno what happened exactly. I..." His eyes slid over to G.B.'s, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I panicked."

G.B. could have said a thousand things, how panic was not an excuse, how he could have explained at the time instead of leaving, how G.B. would have helped him. And yet G.B. didn’t want to. It wasn't any less important, but... but Marshall Lee and the way he was trembling slightly was just as important. The way his voice shook was just as important. And the hunted, haunted look in his eye was just as important.

Slowly, in case Marshall Lee didn't want it, G.B. put a hand on his back. Marshall Lee didn't look away, so G.B. left his hand there, and Marshall Lee continued, haltingly. "I guess... I guess Simone still had a mortgage on the house, or maybe she took one out to help with her medicine. I dunno. But my mom bought the company that held her mortgage, and then she bought the mortgage, and then there were realtors and people asking questions and... and I knew it was her. And I had to go. I..."

He crumpled in on himself, suddenly, pressing his fingers into his scalp. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I said I would tell you when I left, and I didn't. I just fucking bailed like I did every time, only you were important, and I never told you, and I just left like you were nobody. I bolted." He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."

G.B. sat very still. His heart beat so hard in his ears he could hardly hear his own breathing.

It was all so familiar. But it was different, too. Not because of the time that had passed, but because... because Marshall Lee had been his first, and it was looking like Marshall Lee was his only, and what the fuck was even wrong with him?

G.B. stood up; he hardly realized until he saw that Marshall Lee was looking at him in surprise. "I'm not going anywhere," he said sharply. "This is my house. You're the one who'd have to leave." Marshall Lee flinched, and G.B. sighed. "But I don't want you to leave. I just..."

But what he had to do, he couldn't think; he could only stand there with his hands on his elbows and his pulse beating in his throat. He hadn't felt this way in so long. He didn't know if he liked having it back.

"I'm sorry," Marshall Lee whispered again.

G.B. pinched the bridge of his nose. "Apologies aren't good enough, Marshall Lee," he said, but without any heat. He was just... tired. He felt like he'd run a marathon, but without any of the hormones that made you feel good. "Not after—not after what we—"

Marshall Lee drew his legs up to his chest. "You can't even say it," he said softly. "You can't even talk about what we had."

"No, I can't!" G.B. snapped. He took a deep breath and repeated, more carefully, "I can't. But you should have known what you were getting into with me just like I knew what I was getting into with you. Do you understand?"

Marshall Lee opened his mouth, but then didn't speak. He bit his lip and dropped his eyes.

G.B. closed his eyes, because he needed to get out what was in his heart, and he couldn't do that with Marshall Lee looking at him. "The problem was never that you left or that you lied, you bastard. That's what you do. The problem is that I let you look into me—into all of me—and you flinched." He opened his eyes now, though he still didn't want to look at Marshall Lee. "I gave you part of myself, and you didn't even stop to drop it off before you skipped town."

Marshall Lee lifted his chin suddenly, defiant. "Yeah, well, it's not like you ever told me it meant that much to you. It didn't matter how close we got. You always looked right through me. I might’ve talked myself out of everything, but that’s because you made it easy for me to say you wouldn’t give a shit if I left. That you wanted me to go and you were just acting like you didn’t."

"Because you made it explicitly clear that I was not safe with you!" G.B. pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, locking his knees so he wouldn't sway in place. His chest was tight, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a deep breath. He did so now, and it hurt, but he couldn't tell if the pain was just in his head. Could this really still hurt him? He'd thought he was past that.

Marshall Lee looked at him. Then he turned his face away. "I don't want to fight with you. I always tell myself that. I never mean to start shit, but then you open your mouth and I just want to punch you."

G.B. glared at him, even though Marshall Lee was pointedly not looking at him. "Then why don't you?"

"Because I know that's dumb, and I know the only reason I wanna punch you is because you're right all the damn time, and it makes me feel like an asshole." He scrunched up his face. "That's what gets me about you. Everybody else tells me I'm an asshole, and I know that it's true, but you're the only person that makes me feel like an asshole. You're..." He trailed off and pressed his cheek into his shoulder.

"I'm what, Marshall Lee?" G.B. said, spreading his hands, waiting for the next part of the sentence even though he already knew what it would be. Well, not really. Marshall Lee was always so cursedly inventive with swear words.

"You're the only man who ever made me want to be a better person."

G.B. opened his mouth, invectives already ready to go. Then he realized what Marshall Lee had actually said, and he stared. Marshall Lee kept looking away from him, his expression sad, but in a confused way, like he'd gotten lost and didn't know how to find his way home.

"I don't…" G.B. said. "I don't understand."

Marshall Lee opened his mouth, then closed it again. G.B. wanted to snap at him, but he couldn't find any words of his own—he was still listening to Marshall Lee's statement, because it was the last thing he'd ever thought Marshall Lee would say to him.

"Listen, okay," said Marshall Lee, turning to face him suddenly. "Everybody else in my life has just written me off the second they met me. Like, Simone thought I could do better, but she never expected me to, and she wasn't surprised when I didn't. I never disappointed her because she knew who I was. And my mom's been telling me I was a piece of shit since the day I was born. But you..." He pushed off the couch, though he didn't come near G.B. G.B. was grateful, because he wasn't sure what he would do if Marshall Lee approached him.

G.B. wanted to say something pointed, to end the conversation before it could go any further. He'd tried being nice. He’d tried being angry. He’d tried being cruel. He'd tried putting it all to bed, and it was not working, because he just felt as sick and empty as ever.

Marshall Lee walked up to him. He kept his distance, which was good, because G.B. would not have been able to resist the urge to push him away, and if things got physical, that could only cause problems. But Marshall Lee said, "You didn't just want me to be better. You already thought I was better. That’s what I was trying to say before. You put me in a box, but it was a good box. Nobody ever did that."

G.B.'s eyes narrowed, but in confusion, not anger. "I don't see how that's relevant." He bit the inside of his cheek before he could add, "Because obviously I was wrong," because he still didn't think it was true. Never mind anything that had happened.

Marshall Lee folded his arms around himself. He looked smaller than usual, even though G.B., too, was folded in on himself, trying to ease the tightness in his chest. "You drive me so crazy," he said, but softly, not like he was angry about it. Before G.B. could answer that statement, he continued. "It matters because you never gave up on me. And I didn't... Fuck. I never wanted to hurt you, and I want to stop hurting you now, and that's why I was trying to fucking go, only you stopped me."

G.B. thought about pointing out that he'd stopped Marshall Lee because of Fionna, but that would only derail the conversation. He took in a breath. It hitched because his lungs wouldn't expand all the way, but his inhaler wouldn't help. "Look... none of it matters, all right? Because you can't promise me that you'll never leave again."

He expected Marshall Lee to look away, to flinch, to spook, just like every time they even came close to touching something real. But Marshall Lee's eyes stayed steady on his face. "No," he said at last. G.B. narrowed his eyes, but Marshall Lee didn't move away or blink. "No, I can't. I want to, but I'm trying to do this thing with my mom now too, and she always makes me want to bolt. Sometimes I can't fight it. I'm sorry." He straightened, still fixed on G.B's face. "But I'm trying not to leave. And I can... I can promise that I don't want to. That I'm trying not to as hard as I can. I'm trying to learn other ways to deal with it. I don't want to have to keep fixing things after I smash them. I want to not smash them in the first place."

G.B. crossed his arms over his chest. He wanted to look defiant, like he was ready to fight Marshall Lee. But he was pretty sure he just looked stupid. Weak. Like he felt. "That's not much of a promise, Marshall Lee."

Marshall Lee shrugged. "We pushed it too far too fast last time, and we both know it. I mean, I don't want a boyfriend who would pass out if I asked him to kiss me in public when we're not dealing with an emergency."

G.B. dropped his eyes. He couldn't deny it. He thought about saying something awful, but instead he kept his mouth shut.

He wanted... God, he wanted so much to chill out and let things be what they were. Fucked up. Uncomfortable. He'd tried fixing it, and it hadn't worked, and now he didn't know what to do, but apparently Marshall Lee did, and G.B. wished he could just relax and let Marshall Lee take the lead.

Except.

"It still hurts, Marshall Lee," G.B. whispered. "Just because you say you want to change doesn't mean it stops hurting." Marshall Lee opened his mouth, and G.B. shook his head, hard. "No, listen to me for once in your damned life. I had a hole inside me all the time, and it was all right, because nothing made it go away. You didn't either. But you were the only thing that came close, and then you left. You left without a fucking word, and I didn’t even know if you were alive."

Marshall Lee bit his lip. "...I've got a cell phone now."

G.B. stared at him. Then he let out a laugh—brief, hysterical. Then he screwed the heels of his hands up against his face, and then he was crying.

It was silent, because he didn't know any other way; he'd gotten tired of people noticing when he cried. And it hurt: his chest was tight and hard, and he couldn't draw in a deep breath.

Marshall Lee touched his shoulder, just lightly. G.B. barely felt it. He tried to pull away when Marshall Lee took hold of his wrists, but not very hard, and Marshall Lee didn't let him. Nor did he let G.B. get away when he pulled G.B. down to his level so he could put his arms around G.B.'s neck. G.B. gave up pretending and pressed his face into Marshall Lee's shoulder. He was shaking all over; he was freezing even though the thermostat, like always, was set to a sensible sixty-eight degrees.

Had anyone ever held him while he cried? Pepper must have at some point. And his parents. But he'd forgotten all of that. He hadn't wanted to think about it.

At last, he pushed away from Marshall Lee so he could wipe his eyes. He fumbled for the package of tissues he kept in his back pocket so he could blow his nose. He did his best to ignore Marshall Lee, though it wasn't working. He never could ignore Marshall Lee, the way he couldn't ignore a crack of sunlight through blackout curtains or bass-heavy music playing in the distance. He threw the tissue at the wastebasket in the corner, then hugged himself again. He was so cold, and he couldn't stop himself from shivering.

"I'm sorry," said Marshall Lee again. He was twisting his fingers together—finger to opposite thumb, finger to opposite thumb. He said it was supposed to ward off bad luck, just like all the other weird things he did.

G.B. didn't say anything. He was exhausted, and even though it wasn't that late, he just wanted to go to bed.

"Do you want to lay down?" Marshall Lee asked, still twisting his fingers.

G.B.'s first instinct was to snap, but he knew it was useless. He closed his eyes and managed a nod.

Marshall Lee took him by the elbow and took him to his bedroom. He pushed G.B. toward the bed, then went over to pull the curtains closed. G.B. realized he was still wearing his shoes, and he sat down to take them off, though he had to take a long moment to sit there and breathe.

Marshall Lee watched him. His face was unreadable, but he was still twisting his hands finger to thumb, finger to thumb. Finally he said, "Do you want me to leave?"

G.B. took off his shoes before answering. Then he lifted his head. "When was the last time you slept, Marshall Lee?"

He shrugged shoulders that, as always, were too thin and scrawny.

G.B. started unbuttoning his shirt. "I don't remember either. Not really."

Marshall Lee frowned, but it was confused, not angry.

G.B. closed his eyes and shrugged out of his shirt. "Just... get in bed, Marshall Lee." Marshall Lee opened his mouth. "For once in your life, be quiet and listen to me. We're both exhausted. It's been a long day. Things... things will look better in the morning." Pepper was fond of that expression. Not G.B. But things couldn't look worse, unless he woke up and Marshall Lee was gone again.

Marshall Lee looked at him for a long, long moment. G.B. sat still, waiting for Marshall Lee to bolt or say something awful and ruin the moment. But then Marshall Lee let out a slow breath. "I'm tired," he said, and pulled his shirt over his head. He threw it at G.B., who folded it automatically.

"Do you want sweatpants or anything to sleep in?" G.B. asked. He wanted to put on his own pajamas, but he didn't want to undress in front of Marshall Lee.

In response, Marshall Lee slipped out of his pants and threw those at G.B. at well. The smell of smoke that came with the pants made G.B. gag, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he folded the pants, too. Marshall Lee came up to the bed and crawled past G.B., claiming the far corner.

G.B. sighed. He stood so he could take off his khakis, forcing himself not to hesitate. It wasn't like he had anything Marshall Lee hadn't seen before. And he liked to think he wasn't bad looking. Fionna wasn't the only girl who stared at him. Or the only boy, or non-gender conforming person, for that matter.

Marshall Lee, for his part, had a new tattoo on his left pectoral. It was clearly home done, though not bad, just a little outline of a bat. G.B. raised his eyebrows, and Marshall Lee shrugged, putting his arms behind his head to better show it off, though his expression held no cockiness for once in his life. "It was a bet," he said. "Made sure the needles were clean, though. I'm not stupid."

G.B. felt like he was supposed to say something about the wisdom of getting any kind of homebrew tattoo, but he was too tired to think of anything sufficiently witty. He put his hands on his hips. "Last call. Need anything?"

Marshall Lee shook his head, putting his arms down so he could curl around the pillow next to the wall, the one G.B. never slept on.

He looked so young that way. They were both so fucking young.

G.B. let out a long, slow sigh. Then he shut the curtains, turned off the light, and got into bed beside Marshall Lee.

In the dark it felt less weird. His eyes took time to adjust, but he didn't need to see to know Marshall Lee was staring at him. G.B. tried closing his eyes, but it was pointless, so he rolled on his side. "What?"

Marshall Lee bit his lip. Then, carefully, he scooted towards G.B. until he was pressed along G.B.'s side.

"What?" G.B. repeated, even though he knew.

"Please?" was Marshall Lee's soft reply.

G.B. bit the inside of his cheek. Then he lifted his arm, and Marshall Lee tucked himself alongside, settling his head in the curve of G.B.'s arm. G.B. thought that would be it, and he told himself he needed to sleep, that maybe if he closed his eyes he’d wake up with a better grasp of his own emotions, like a real human person.

But then Marshall Lee said, softly, “It’s not like we can fix it in a day.”

“Or at all,” G.B. replied. It came out too harsh, but he let it hang there anyway.

“I still want to try,” Marshall Lee replied, undaunted. “I told myself I didn’t give a fuck, but it’s all I think about now.” He let out a breath and pressed his forehead against G.B.’s bare chest. “I want to stop running.” Another breath. "I'm sorry.” A third. "I missed you."

G.B. closed his eyes, settling his other arm around Marshall. "I missed you too."

**Author's Note:**

> Friendly reminder that this still isn't the end of the story, although now we're at least within spitting distance. I think there's three more longish things like this, but don't hold me to that. 
> 
> Also thank you for the lovely comments. You guys are lovely people and I hope you get lots of hugs.


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